Electrostimulation and Orgasm

February 11, 2013 at 11:38 am (Real Life, Sex) (, , , , , , , )


Having one of the most powerful orgasms of my life while strapped to a massage table in the basement of a suburban home is actually a pretty fun way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

I met a couple at a kink-friendly party who talked about e-stim and invited me to try it. I’ll admit I didn’t do my homework and didn’t really know what they were talking about; I assumed it was a form of electrical play similar to using a violet wand. So when I accepted their invitation and trekked to their home in the suburbs, I was thinking I might remove my shirt but that was about it.

It was a bit of a surprise when Bob showed me two small objects with electrodes embedded in them and explained that one was designed to be inserted vaginally and one anally. Ohhhh… if I’d been smart I would have been a little more prepared! Apologizing for my unshaven legs, I gamely stripped and lay on the towel-covered table. I inserted the vaginal plug and asked my boyfriend to insert the anal one.  They were attached by leads to a control box that looked, to me, similar to a CB radio, which was attached to a laptop for finer control of the sensations the electrodes would produce. Bob started with a basic pattern that felt like something expanding inside those orifices, though it was simply the muscles reacting to the electrical stimulation by expanding and contracting.

It was probably not the best way to start, since I wasn’t at all aroused at this point, and my arousal certainly doesn’t start with being penetrated. Truthfully, I wasn’t enjoying the sensations. Bob kept asking questions about how I felt and making adjustments, then suggested we try some electrodes on a breast. He placed two stick-on electrodes on either side of my right nipple, near the edges of my areola (which are quite large) and we removed the anal probe in order to hook up that lead to the electrodes with a splitter. The sensation there was fascinating and definitely arousing – it felt as if the nipple was being pinched, but the sensation was also distinctly below the surface of the nipple. Now, I absolutely adore breast play and always want lots of nipple stimulation during sex, so this is a key to my arousal, and I started having trouble staying quiet and still, much to the amusement of the audience of my boyfriend and Bob’s wife, Jenny. (Watching someone experiencing e-stim is about as interesting as watching paint dry; there’s really nothing to see except a naked person lying on a table. Jenny was knitting through most of the playtime! It’s only fun for other people if they’re driving the equipment, or when the subject starts squealing with pleasure.)

The nipple stimulation was so wonderful, I asked for electrodes on my left breast as well. This meant disconnecting the vaginal probe, which was fine with me – even with the arousal brought on by the nipple action, I wasn’t getting much out of the vaginal stimulation. So out it came and two more electrodes went on, not quite in the same position but still generating a very similar sensation. Having both nipples stimulated simultaneously is probably one of my most favorite things ever, and I loved it, gripping the edge of the table to keep from arching my back and squirming. I breathlessly told them that it would be heaven to be strapped down and stimulated with a vibrator along with the nipple stim, and I regretted not bringing one with me. Never fear – Bob and Jenny kindly offered the services of their Hitachi, and of course they had a handy pair of velcro cuffs to attach my hands over my head to the table. I just closed my eyes and let the sensations wash over me.

The boyfriend manned the vibrator, and eventually Bob joined in, experimenting with me. He tried inserting another vibrator in my vagina while the Hitachi covered my clit, but at first it felt like he’d inserted something anally – perhaps because of the angle – and I asked him to stop. No offense taken – try something else. He started playing with my nipples along with the electrical stimulation going on, which was phenomenal – very much the type of stimulation on the edge of overstimulation that I crave. The Hitachi was a bit too much, though – I tend to need very focused clit stimulation, and the ball top of the classic Magic Wand was a bit too generalized for me. We took a break from it, and after a few minutes I asked the boyfriend to finger my clit instead. He was game, and it was comforting to have him close and participating in this with me.

Unfortunately, my cell phone started going off with text message alerts, which distracted me quite a bit, and I probably would have reached orgasm much faster if there hadn’t been that break in concentration. I was at a peak of arousal without the release of orgasm for quite a long time, which is both delicious and agonizing – my arms were getting sore from pulling at the restraints, my ladybits were on the edge of numb, though my breasts were still in heaven. The boyfriend stuck to his task, and Bob eventually tried a vibrator inside me again, and that did it – stimulation overload sent me into spasms. My full body reacted to that orgasm – I arched up off the table, disconnecting one set of electrodes in the process, and I know I was loud – it was a deep, rich release. As I came back down, it took me quite a while to calm my breathing, and the boyfriend stayed close to me while I slowly relaxed again. I had a moment of overwhelming emotion that almost broke into tears (not unusual for me after a strong orgasm). Mostly I was terribly dehydrated.

After a bit of wind-down time we did play with a violet wand, which I’d love to experiment with more, then I dressed and we sat around talking for a couple more hours. Bob and Jane are older than my boyfriend and I, they have some interesting hobbies aside from electrical sex, and they were very kind, generous hosts. I’m very grateful for the experience they gave me and sent them a thank-you note afterwards.

It’s an adventure I’m very glad to have had, for a number of reasons. It was an aspect of sexual stimulation I’d never explored and found that I enjoyed very much. I’ve often mused on the possibilities of extreme arousal and sensual stimulation, and how that would impact me with my orgasm difficulties (see here and here), so this experience showed me that while it wouldn’t necessarily speed up my ability to orgasm, reaching orgasm was definitely possible with this kind of stimulation, and could result in a very powerful orgasm at that.

It was also the first sexual experience I’ve had in a long time that involved someone touching me in a sexual way for whom I didn’t feel any kind of sexual attraction. I’ve had poor experiences in the past with sexual contact from men I wasn’t really attracted to, but this was different – not clinical, but not wholly disengaged either. I think it was simply friendly play – Bob wanted me to have a good experience with one of his favorite toys, he wanted to share his knowledge, and he did things he thought would help me get the most out of it. Those things involved touching me in sexual ways, and I was okay with that, his wife was okay with that, and it didn’t mean anything more than friendly assistance. I’ve become unused to thinking of sex detatched from emotional connection and sexual attraction, so it is interesting to reflect on the fact that a wonderful sexual experience can take place with someone with whom I don’t have a strong emotional/sexual bond.

I was very grateful that my boyfriend came along for this experience with me. I was concerned that he would be bored, and very happy that he gamely participated. His closeness increased my comfort level in the experience, and added an element of emotional intimacy that probably helped as well. He has told me he enjoyed the experience, too, and that it is something he’d love to see happen again someday – a fantasy we share of bringing me to orgasm under group stimulation. Another adventure to find in the future.

While I wouldn’t invest in the equipment myself, given the option to play with e-stim toys again, I would definitely do so. Exploration of this kind is part of the life adventure I seek, and it was well worth a Sunday afternoon in the suburbs.

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More than just a threesome.

April 23, 2012 at 9:53 am (Polyamory, Real Life, Relationship, Sex) (, , , , )


Those readers who also follow me on Twitter will not be surprised at the story I’m about to tell; they’ve seen it coming, it was just a matter of time. But it’s a complex story, and I fear that no matter how I write it, I cannot do it justice. Because it wasn’t just a threesome, and it wasn’t just a woman. It was so much more. I hope I can convey that clearly.

One of my difficulties in poly has always been a type of sexual jealousy – the fear that my partner might find someone else who is more ______ sexually than I am – more uninhibited, more experienced, more experimental, more orgasmic. It’s part of an underlying lack of confidence, the fear that the only thing I bring to a relationship is my sexual availability, which may not measure up against other women. As the relationship with the boyfriend has strengthened and deepened, I’ve challenged myself to raise my confidence in this area, and not be afraid that his other lovers will diminish me. One way I’ve worked on this is through actively encouraging a flirtation between him and a dear friend. She’s someone I trust, whom I feel a strong connection to, and whom I care about very much. Their interactions began with awareness and involvement, and eventually included private contact between the two of them. I was happy that they liked each other, and I felt little to no fear about their contact, I think largely in part because I was somewhat orchestrating it. Right or wrong, that made it feel safe to me.

As this was developing, I was also doing a lot of pondering on my sexual feelings towards women. I’m becoming increasingly curious to explore in that direction again. I feel much differently towards women than I do men, and I’m not confident enough in my understanding of the nature of those feelings to describe them yet. But I’ve been wanting the chance to interact with a woman on a sexual level, and the best opportunity to do so in a safe space would be with the boyfriend present. Like many boyfriends, he saw no problem with this. And eventually the opportunity arose with our mutual friend.

And here’s where I fear I can’t do the event justice right now, and it will have to be written about later, in more detail, in a different tone. Because it was a sensual, erotic experience, friendly and relaxed, flowing easily and without much if any awkwardness or hesitation. Lovely as it was, I first need to explore the emotional aspects and reactions, before I put the experience out there as an erotic indulgence.

And so… it flowed, from playful spanking, to a man with a woman snuggled on each side, touching him, kissing one and then the other, two mouths pleasuring him together. I watched as he eased into focusing on her, and I felt a calm, fully present joy with this. There were two people I care about very much, taking pleasure in each other in what can be the simplest, most direct and essential way. It was perhaps my first real moment of poly compersion, and I love the memory of it and still feel the echoes of that happiness. His head between her thighs, I knew what she felt, I knew it was good, and I was happy to be next to her while she felt it. I stroked her hair and hesitantly stroked her breast. I kissed her once or twice on the forehead. I believe she came while he licked her, and I was happy to watch her pleasure grow and unfold.

But sadly, this is where some fear started to unfurl inside of me, and I started to withdraw. He expressed a desire to be inside one of us. I gave him a condom and pointed him to her. I lay next to them and watched, still happy to see their shared pleasure, but with a little voice inside me pulling me away. They came, almost simultaneously. He kissed me and told me he loved me. He tried to draw me in but I resisted, almost hid. We lay together, a man with a woman snuggled on each side, and talked for a while longer, then parted ways.

And I fell apart. Because the fear that came to the surface was the one I was, well, afraid of the most. That I’m broken. That I can’t do what other women do. That I can’t have an orgasm without a great deal of effort and difficulty.

Let me stop to state in no uncertain terms that this is not her fault. It is not his fault. I am in no way blaming them for enjoying their contact and taking sexual pleasure in each other, and I don’t want them to feel guilty for doing so. I wanted them to, and it made me happy that they did. These were my own fears and my own insecurities that took those things I watched and made them into a source of pain through comparisons that, again, only I was making. Neither of them in any way excluded me. Neither of them in any way said or did anything to imply that I wasn’t worth the effort to involve any further in this encounter.

It was my choice. I withdrew. I closed up. Because the voice in my head was saying over and over, it will be too much work. Trying to bring me back into the erotic exchange and arouse me, excite me to the point of orgasm in whatever way possible, would require too much effort, and it was too late at night, and I was too nervous, and it wouldn’t work. It wasn’t worth it. I wasn’t worth it.

The voice told me I wasn’t worth it. And I listened to its lies.

I regret this deeply. I’m struggling to let go of my disappointment in myself. Because I thought, through a lot of work from myself and a lot of support and reassurance from the boyfriend, that I had gotten past this way of thinking, that I’m broken and insufficient and worthless because of how I’m wired. That the difficulty I have in orgasming with a partner is a flaw, a failure. I’ve tried hard to change my perspective. I’ve tried to accept this as the way I am, not a shortcoming, but just reality. We work with it; we get me off together, and he had, in recent weeks, been surprisingly successful in getting me off on his own accord. But there was a rotten core still in there, and this experience pushed it to the surface and I let it take over. I let it talk me into withdrawing from an experience that could have been richer, and in some ways I suspect could have been healing and comforting for me. But I was too afraid to take the chance.

I want a do-over, and I know I’ll get one in time. Both of these wonderful people have been reassuring in their willingness to listen to me try to explain my sad reaction to this happy event. We’ll try it again sometime. And with the light on this fear, keeping it from hiding in the dark corners again, I hope it can be another step towards truly conquering it, towards accepting myself as I am, with affection and desire from people who care about me, whether I have an orgasm or not.

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I could do this all day.

January 17, 2012 at 10:46 am (Real Life, Sex) (, , , )


He said this with his fingers between my lips, stroking and searching for the perfect touch.

I could do this all day.

I’ve wondered ever since – what exactly about that moment could he do all day? What gave him the kind of contented, comfortable feeling that would make you want to stay in that moment all day?

Maybe he loves the exploration – trying to find the right angle, the right spot, the delicacy of stroking tiny ridges and curves of the most sensitive flesh, looking for the ones that quicken my breathing, that draw my wetness.

Maybe it’s watching my face, when my eyes close, when I start to soften, when I start to tense, when I have to breathe heavily with mouth open, when I lick my lips and turn my head to nuzzle against his beard and seek out his lips.

Maybe it’s what he senses through his fingers, how wet he makes me, how the soft flesh closes around him, how the point hardens and swells, and what these things tell him about how I feel and what his touch does to me.

Maybe it’s listening to my breath, to the rhythm he creates, the catch and gasp as his fingers move to different spots, dip inside to thrust and pull out the moisture, then return to circling, probing, seeking again. Maybe it’s a longing to hear that most tell-tale of signs, the rapid increase and heightening pitch of whimpers that mean he is going to achieve what he set out to accomplish.

I could do this all day.

I loved hearing him say it. I love knowing it. But I didn’t know the right thing to say in return, so I said what was probably the wrong thing: That’s good, because sometimes it takes all day.

He didn’t get what he was seeking that day, not on his own. My fingers joined his, mine above and his inside, and we brought it out together, the rise of breath, the swelling, the tightening, my hips rising as the heat spreads and I open and break and cry out and finish. Still wonderful release, together.

*Note, this was originally posted on my Tumblr on Saturday, 14 January 2012.

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Sweet Little Fantasies

October 24, 2011 at 10:03 am (Sex) (, , , , , )


Perhaps it’s due to the change of the seasons and the onset of cooler weather, when I start feeling more domestic. The nesting instinct kicking in. Trying to settle the chaos in the house down to a dull roar and fewer piles, wearing more layers, deliberating when to turn on the heat. My erotic imagination turns to more tranquil scenes, sweeter intimacies.

A few days ago I woke up with the specific longing to spend the day in kneesocks and a cardigan, alternating between reading and fucking. This is rooted in an experience from over ten years ago, when the boyfriend of the time took me home with him for the weekend to his cozy little house in a small Ohio town. He undressed me upon arrival, and I never bothered to re-dress until it was time to leave. He was working, I was reading, curled up on the sofa or across from him at the table, and periodically he would reach for me. He liked the way the sweater covered my breasts but let the curve of my ass peek out, and he liked having only that simple piece of clothing to remove when he wanted more. I enjoyed keeping him company in this way, free to do what I wished with no responsibilities over my head, just the assumption of willingness to open my legs to him when he wanted. And he wanted often, burrowing into me in a nest of quilts spread on the living room floor, or guiding me to my knees as he leaned back in his chair. There was no question of denying that wanting when it arose, and it was a luscious weekend of comfortable silence and warm, friendly desire.

A hot shower also triggered another fantasy, also based in reality, of being bathed and pampered. I imagine a large, deep tub full of bubbles, and being scrubbed all over with a rough cloth until I am red from heat and friction. I would be rinsed, wrapped in towels and patted dry, then stroked all over again with lotion until soft and sweet. Taken to bed, I would be heated through with desire as this imaginary lover focused first on my breasts, sucking and biting my nipples, licking and caressing them like the objects of his deepest lusts. Fingers would then find my center and the hot, throbbing point, followed by lips and tongue, followed by hard cock and our bodies pressed together, and the enveloping heat of orgasm.

Such sweet, simple fantasies, yet so unlikely to ever be experienced. It interests me that in both, I’m rather objectified – an adored and desired thing, but one that serves a purpose of pleasure above all else. Cared for and caressed, but with no expectations or burdens. This speaks to a deeper, more difficult desire to escape a little from the daily weight of obligations and responsibilities, a longing to be a receiver rather than a caregiver. A need much harder to fill. But perhaps one that really needs to be heard.

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The Sexual To-Do List.

October 5, 2011 at 8:16 pm (Real Life, Sex) (, , , , , , )


I asked folks a question on Twitter about what’s on their sexual to-do list that they fear may never be crossed off. I was curious about those big hopes and dreams and fantasies that might not be achievable, or perceived as achievable. The discussion focused more on the sexual to-do’s themselves, though; achievable or not achievable didn’t really register for some.  Which is okay; it was a fun discussion anyway.

I’ve been thinking the past few days about those things I want to do, and whether any of my current partners would be willing to do them, and why or why not, and whether some of those things are important enough to me to seek out someone who would be willing to fulfill them. It’s a pretty entertaining train of thought, for the most part.

So for the record, and for the sake of my own failing memory, I thought I’d start a blog post for my sexual to-do list. I’ll probably come back and update it periodically, hopefully as things are accomplished, but also as new things occur to me.

I’ll note that the use of the word “sex” could include vaginal penetration or oral sex, giving or receiving, unless otherwise specified.

So, in no particular order, my list includes:

1. MFM threesome with double penetration.

2. Spend one 24-hour period as a slave or a pet. (There are very, very specific requirements around this, but it’s something I’ve entertained in fantasy for about fifteen years.)

3. Give a male partner a handjob in the balcony of Southgate House during a show.

4. Give a male partner a blow job in a parking garage (in or out of a vehicle).

5. Sex in a vehicle going through a car wash.

6. Sex outdoors in snow; in rain; in bright spring sunshine. Preferably all of the above (not at the same time, of course).

7. Participate in filming someone else’s sexual encounter (without being an active participant in the sex itself).

8. Be restrained and blindfolded in a situation where I would not know who was touching me (among a trusted group who understood my boundaries, but still unaware of specifics).

9. Describe a fantasy to a partner and for it to be fulfilled at a later time exactly as described. (I try to share fantasies with partners, but usually they forget about them, aren’t interested in them, or if they try to fulfill them they miss certain important details or make changes so it’s not really what I wanted. Yes, I’m high maintenance.)

10. Be set on fire. (Maybe this isn’t entirely a sex thing, but I have the opportunity to have it done next month and I am super super excited about it.)

11. Watch a male partner have sex with another man.

12. Participate in a porn-watching party/orgy.

13. Be beaten with a riding crop.

14. Have sex with someone I originally had sex with in my 20’s.

15. Meet and have playtime with some of my sexy Twitter friends.

I suppose this list will seem rather tame, to some. But it accurately reflects my current interests and desires. I sit at the milder end of the kink spectrum and I’m okay with that. Which doesn’t mean that, over time, I won’t add some rougher stuff, and there are definitely fantasies that involve rougher stuff, but most either don’t qualify as things I really, really want to do; or they’re things I’ve done already but continue to enjoy in fantasy.

What’s on your list?

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Healing.

September 27, 2011 at 3:29 pm (Real Life, Relationship, Sex) (, , , , , )


I’ve reached a point in therapy where I need to go deep into an old wound. I need to do so with compassion, the objective being to forgive myself for something I once did, something I am ashamed of, which I believe to be the root of a lot of my issues. This is that story.

When I was twenty-two years old, I married a man I’d met about a week prior. Actually, I’d known him for several years, but we had never spent a moment together until then. He had been in prison, and we’d corresponded with letters and tapes. He professed to love me. No one else ever had. I didn’t think I would find someone else who ever would. I liked being wanted, being needed.

I wasn’t attracted to him. I was pretty uncomfortable with him, actually. But I had promised to marry him, and I did.

I am deeply, deeply ashamed of that. I should have known better.  But he had crossed the country to be with me. Actually, he’d broken laws to be with me, which led to our first few years being a pretty fucked-up mess. At the time, I didn’t think there was any way I could have said “no”. Deep down, I may have felt that the risk of saying “no” was greater than the risk of continuing. I chose to continue.

The marriage lasted seven years. It was about two years into it when he began using heroin. He’d been a junkie before, and I knew it. I pretended not to realize what was going on for another year. By then, we were deep in debt. The first time he overdosed, I called 911 and we went to the hospital for him to be revived. The second time he overdosed, I just sat on the bed and waited to see if he would come around or not.

Eventually, he went back to jail for a few months, and somehow I found the strength to tell him he couldn’t come home when he got out. He did anyway — he had nowhere else to go. It took about a week of constant fighting, and an OD suicide attempt, before he got it through his head that I was serious.  He packed up and moved out of state, and he has never come back.

Except in dreams. For years I dreamed about trying to get him to leave; dreams where I would come home and he’d be there, acting like he belonged there. I’d have to convince him all over again to leave.

And there were dreams about a panther lying on my chest, patiently waiting for me to make one wrong move so it could tear my throat out.

I still have these dreams sometimes, over ten years later.

I did a lot of work to get past this, to build up my self-esteem and re-enter the world as a strong, confident, single woman. I did a pretty good job of getting my life back together. Except for one thing. I still blame myself for those seven years of hell. I put myself into that situation. I let it continue. I let myself be abused both emotionally and physically. And I’ve never forgiven myself for that.

And there’s one more thing. The night before he left, we had sex. At this point, I truly hated him, but was so relieved that he’d finally relented and was leaving. I had no desire for him, but he knew how to touch me, and I gave in to him. I had an orgasm.

Let’s pause for a moment and think about that.

If you’ve read my blog, you know I have difficulty with reaching orgasm with a partner. Now, truthfully, he was not wholly responsible for this orgasm, but when we had sex we frequently used a position where I could reach my clit while he was inside of me. So not only did I let him fuck me one last time, I brought myself to orgasm while he was doing so.

I feel sick to my stomach every time I’ve thought of this in all the years since. I despise myself for allowing that to happen.

I’m starting to realize that somehow, deep down in the festering heart of that wound, I may have decided that I would never be allowed to have an orgasm with a partner again. That my body’s refusal to orgasm through a partner’s stimulation is my punishment on myself for doing something that so disgusts me to remember.

The first man I got involved with after the marriage ended told me, directly and explicitly: “I am not your ex.”  I took that to heart, and I’ve never again projected my distrust of my ex onto any other man. I don’t have trust issues, I don’t expect every man to abuse me, and I can stand up for myself in a relationship.

But I certainly don’t trust myself. And I’ve never forgiven myself. And in order to move on, I need to learn how to do both of those things.

 

 

 

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Punk Pals.

July 31, 2011 at 9:29 am (Real Life, Sex) (, , )


In the early 90’s, before the internet started becoming accessible to the common man, there were zines. I was an avid collector and participant in zine culture, and among my favorites was one called Punk Pals. For a buck or so you could submit an ad, and a while later receive the next issue with a hand-drawn cover and a typewritten interior, filled with ads from punks, prisoners, and other ne’er-do-wells from across North America. I met some fascinating people this way, and for a couple years spent a good part of my meager earnings on stamps, corresponding with over a dozen people at a time.

This is how I met Shawn. He was a Canadian punk with a wilted, bleached-out mohawk, a skater’s build, and a big sense of adventure. We took a shine to each other. He lured me into phone sex, which for my still-inexperienced self was crazy erotic. It didn’t take much longer for him to decide to hop on a Greyhound and come visit me.

He arrived in the wee hours of a Saturday morning. We walked down to the river, killing time, waiting for a restaurant to open so we could have breakfast. Eventually we made our way to a friend’s apartment, where I had made arrangements for us to hang out, since I was still living with my parents. In a borrowed bed, with the sun coming up burning through homemade orange curtains, he undressed at the offer of a massage.

It was amazing to me, to touch a man that way, to feel muscles, broad shoulders, smooth skin. When he turned over and pulled me down for a kiss, he was erect. Very erect. Is it just inexperience that makes him seem so large in my memory? I hadn’t seen many erections at that point. He was long and thick. He asked for a condom, and I had to sneak into my friend’s bedroom to find one.

I was bedded, skirt was lifted, and he was prodding between my thighs. He didn’t kiss me again. He didn’t undress me or touch me. He had difficulty getting inside of me. I was dry, and it hurt. He pushed harder, and it hurt more. I don’t think he ever was fully inside of me, and eventually I just went numb. It was enough for him, and he finished, and went to sleep beside me.

He stayed for two more days, went to parties with me, criticized American beer, charmed my friends, but never touched me again. He went home on the Greyhound and I never heard from him again.

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Youth.

July 16, 2011 at 8:22 pm (Real Life, Sex) (, , )


The last time I went to bed with a significantly younger man was before I met my husband, so a little over five years ago. I was going through my last great wild phase, taking pretty much any offer. I’d ended a long distance relationship that had been keeping me in misery, but the misery hadn’t left me yet.

But I digress.

He sent me a picture of him standing front of one of the Egyptian pyramids. He was in college, a big name school, but I’ve forgotten which one. I think he may have been 22 or so. I was 34. He was honest about seeking a fling with an older woman. When I asked him why, he said his friends were becoming sexually adventurous and having fun little affairs, so he thought he should, too. Fair enough.

He was pretty – really strikingly attactive, and not the kind of boy who would have had the slightest amount of interest in me if we had been the same age. He smiled a lot and talked to me about college, his parents, his sumer internship, when we met in the coffeeshop around the corner from my apartment. He was also clearly waiting for a signal from me that I would be taking him home, and finally just asked outright. Why not?

I didnt expect one so young to have so much body hair – he was lusciously furry. But he wanted to be in control and didn’t give me much of an opportunity to explore or even look at him. His kisses were sloppy and wet. He had no idea where my clit was located, and just wiggled his fingers around between my lips like he was fishing for a lost screw. He kept smiling, and sometimes giggled. He didnt last long. As he lay beside me for a few moments, I could almost see him sorting through the experience and working it into a story to tell his friends.

This is the first time I’ve told his story. I wonder how many times he has told it.

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This is how to do it.

July 4, 2011 at 2:57 pm (Real Life, Sex) (, , , )


Cuff me, hands together, over my head.

Put all your focus on my breasts. Stroking and squeezing, teasing lightly around my nipples. Then pinching, twisting, fierce and hungry sucking.  Caress them as my gift to you; abuse them as worthless things.

Kiss me after a while, and I’ll keep stretching up to you for more, wanting to drink from you, wanting to take you in through your lips and tongue.

All the while my hips are grinding, thighs clenched together, trying to generate just a little pressure, just a bit, to relieve that throbbing point.

Until finally, you reach down, slide your fingers in, soaked with wetness, and stroke just right, just so, and it takes me over and claims me, hips arching up, up, reaching for it, then expanding, contracting, flowing heat finish.

I knew we would figure this out eventually.

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The go-to image.

June 28, 2011 at 6:08 pm (Sex) (, , , )


You know… those moments from past sexual encounters that stand out in your memory, the ones you can return to in fantasy over and over and never tire of, the ones you can pull out of your pocket when an orgasm needs some extra encouragement to deliver. Those go-to images that are tucked away, always ready.

They might not have been with anyone special; or they could have been with someone you passionately loved. The entire experience may not have been memorable, but there was this one thing, this one moment, that has always remained. A single image of something unbelievably sexy.

These are what I like to write about, but some are just too brief to stand on their own. But they’re gorgeous to me, and I want to share them somehow.

Like the man I was curled up beside, during an interlude, and I noticed a small bead of pre-come on the tip of his cock; I wiped it up with the edge of my thumb, then brought it to my lips and licked it off… how he made an approving sound and told me it was the sexiest thing I had ever done.

Or when I was bent over the side of my bed, pressed face-down into the mattress, being fucked roughly from behind by a man who was willing to do, without questioning, whatever I asked him to do.

Or the conversation that slowly turned to play, when I pressed him between my breasts and he came so quickly, and was so surprised that I wanted nothing in return, that I was happy to have pleased him.

Or when I lay with my head over the side of the bed, better to nuzzle his balls and lick him from base to tip, while he fondled my breasts and twisted my nipples just enough to make me whimper against his thighs.

Or when he finished, and slipped out of me, and slid his tongue gently between my lips and over my clit, as if in thanks.

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